


Fish Fingers and Custard

by Elvendork



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humour, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin has questionable eating habits. Arthur just has questions. For <a href="http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/728.html?thread=630744#t630744">this</a> prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fish Fingers and Custard

**Author's Note:**

> Written very quickly and containing failed attempts at humour. I do not own Cabin Pressure and no profit is being made.

Being on standby, Douglas decides, lounging back in his chair with one hand behind his head and the other absently twirling a pen around his fingers, is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, he is being paid for doing nothing – on the other, well...he is doing _nothing_ , which in principle is an occupation he relishes, but in practice is nothing short of terminally boring.

Martin, who isn’t even _being_ paid for this, is taking the opportunity to catch up on paperwork – and remind Douglas continually about the stack of his own he has yet to complete. They both know his attempts are in vain, but it would seem wrong if the Captain didn’t make at least a token effort. Currently, Martin has left the broom cupboard they somehow manage to pass as an office in search of something to eat, leaving Douglas in his present state of boredom and Arthur humming tunelessly while he dusts. The situation has not dampened Arthur’s perpetual good mood in the slightest.

At the sound of the door being pushed open, Douglas glances up to see Martin edging backwards through it with a bowl in one hand a small plate in the other. Arthur looks around too, and both sets of eyes fall simultaneously onto Martin’s rather odd choice of meal.

Arthur exclaims, ‘wow, Skip, that looks _brilliant_!’ at the same time as Douglas drawls, ‘Martin, that looks _revolting_.’

Martin sniffs in what he evidently hopes is an aloof manner as he settles himself behind the opposite desk, clearing the clutter in front of him to make room for his food. Douglas stands and leans over the small gap, raising his eyebrows and inhaling experimentally.

‘Is that _custard_?’ He asks incredulously,

‘Yes,’ is Martin’s stiff reply.

‘With...fish fingers?’

‘Yes,’ Martin repeats, dipping a fish finger into the bowl of custard and taking a bite. Arthur looks intrigued, Douglas disgusted. Again, they both speak at once.

‘Might I ask why?’

‘Do fish have fingers?’

Choosing to ignore Douglas, Martin turns to Arthur patiently.

‘No,’ he says, pointedly not looking at Douglas. ‘They’re just –’

‘Then why are they called fingers?’

‘Because, well...they’re made of fish, and they’re shaped like...fingers,’ Martin explains uncertainly. Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise and he peers inquisitively, disbelievingly, at his own hands.

‘My fingers aren’t shaped like that,’ he replies, nonplussed. ‘ _They’re_ all...square.’

‘They’re rectangle,’ Martin corrects automatically. Douglas remains silent, observing the exchange with growing amusement. ‘And they’re just – well I mean I...they’re sort of...’

‘Very eloquent, Martin. Remarkably well explained, I’m sure the matter is completely clear to Arthur now.’

‘Yeah, I get it now!’ Arthur exclaims,

‘Do you?’ Martin asks, hopefully. Arthur hesitates.

‘Well, no...not really. My fingers aren’t rectangle either,’ he muses, ‘is that what shape fish’s fingers are? Because I mean...they’re quite big, aren’t they? I had a goldfish once, and he was way smaller than that. He’d look pretty stupid with fingers that size.’

‘Arthur, fish do not have fingers,’ Martin insists,

‘Well,’ Douglas adds, ‘not any _more_...’

‘Douglas!’

‘Does that mean – are you saying that someone went and cut all the fingers off the fish – _while they were still alive_?’ It’s Arthur’s turn to look disgusted, ‘ _eurgh_! Eurgh, that’s _gross_!’

‘And yet, delicious,’ Douglas smirks, leaning back in his chair once more.

‘Douglas, stop it – Arthur, no, that’s not how fish fingers are made.’

‘Then how are they made?’

‘Yes, Martin – how _are_ they made?’ Douglas inquires innocently, thoroughly enjoying himself now. Perhaps being on standby isn’t so bad after all.

‘They’re, well – I don’t – I mean – does it _matter_ , Arthur? It’s like hot dogs...they’re not _really_ made out of dogs –’

‘– that we know of, anyway,’ Douglas interjects.

‘Douglas, _stop it_!’ Martin splutters, while Arthur looks thoughtful.

‘So if fish fingers aren’t made out of fish, and hot dogs aren’t made out of dogs –’

‘Fish fingers _are_ made out of fish, just not their fingers – which they don’t even have –’

‘– then are beef burgers not made out of beefs?’

Martin coughs, and Douglas roars with laughter.

‘What exactly is a ‘beef’, then, Arthur?’ Asks Douglas, ignoring the glare Martin is trying and failing spectacularly at frightening him into silence with.

‘I don’t know, but they make good burgers don’t they?’

‘Look, Arthur,’ Martin says quickly, before Douglas can interrupt and trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice, ‘beef comes from cows. There’s no such thing as _a_ beef. Fish fingers are made of fish, but not of fingers. That’s just because of the shape. And hot dogs aren’t made out of dogs, they’re made of...something else.’

‘What something else?’

Martin groans. Douglas grins.

‘You know, in all these questions, I feel we’ve missed a vitally important one,’ muses the First Officer calmly. Martin closes his eyes while Arthur peers between the two pilots with interest. ‘Why, might I ask, Martin, are you eating fish fingers and _custard_?’ Martin blushes, tries not to, and blushes even more.

‘I like it,’ he defends petulantly, taking another bite to prove his point.

‘I can see that. I was wondering more about how you managed to discover that you liked it. Arthur didn’t make it for you did he?’

‘I didn’t, but I wish I had!’ Arthur enthuses, ‘I can do some for you if you like Douglas, and I could –’

‘No, Arthur, that’s quite alright. I’m sure I can survive without it.’

Arthur shrugs, ‘suit yourself,’ he replies with a smile, ‘can I try some Martin?’

In answer, Martin pushes the bowl towards him and watches with a certain degree of smugness (he won’t let the fact that Arthur will eat almost anything ruin the moment) as an expression of absolute delight crosses the steward’s face when he tastes them.

‘Wow, Douglas, you should try it!’

‘I’d really rather not,’ Douglas replies.

‘Oh come on, you’ll love it – just try a little bit,’ Arthur wheedles, taking another fish finger and almost swallowing it whole once he has coated it quite thoroughly with custard.

‘I wouldn’t want to deprive you and Martin of such an exquisite snack – don’t worry, I’m quite certain I’ll manage without them.’

‘But _Douglas_...’

Douglas’s eyes have fallen on the pile of unfinished – un _started_ – paperwork beside him, and an idea strikes him.

‘Okay, Martin,’ he says abruptly, ‘I will take _one_ bite of your considerably questionable meal, _if_ you fill these out for me.’ Martin snorts in disbelief,

‘You’ll eat my food if I do your paperwork? Why on Earth would I agree to that?’

‘Because if you do, I swear not another word will pass my lips about your severely damaged taste buds.’

Martin frowns. He _has_ almost completed his own paperwork, and it would be something to do until they’re flying again...he nods.

Arthur positively fidgets with excitement as Douglas, an expression on his face not unlike a man who has agreed to voluntarily ingest cyanide, gingerly nibbles the end of a custard-coated fish finger. His face clears in shock, and Arthur beams.

‘You know,’ he says, ‘that’s actually rather good.’


End file.
